


Robin's Redemption

by wintersnight



Series: Fracture Verse and other things [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Dami is such a sweet little shit, Gen, Get your feels ready, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Tim Drake gets one last Robin Ride, i love this, the red bird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 15:35:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20410138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersnight/pseuds/wintersnight
Summary: This is the "Damian gives Tim one last night as Robin to get closure" fic no one asked for. Welp, I wrote it anyway.***Because apparently it’s fucking opposite day or he’s stepped right into a multiverse where Damian isn’t a complete and total dick.





	Robin's Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve wanted to write this for a long, loooong time, but just never got around to it, but honestly, it's my fave from the Follower post on Tumblr. It’s kind of a What-If side-story to the Fracture Verse, one of those ‘You call, I’ll come’ kind of things. And ah, the title is kind of two-fold which just makes me so happy because it isn't just one Robin's redemption, really. Also, yet again, my suit kink is showing.
> 
> Dami is a murderous cinammon roll.  
Fight me.

His mouth is hanging open, but that could have _something_ to do with the glaring little Demon staring him down.

Because apparently it’s fucking _opposite day_ or he’s stepped right into a multiverse where Damian isn’t a complete and total _dick_.

Either way, his night is not looking _up_.

“Say that again,” Red deadpans at the current Robin (who is just doing civvies in the Cave, his injured leg half-cast laying on a stool beside him while Titus gives a low whine from his position in the current Robin’s lap).

And since, well, _Dami_, the youngest vigilante rolls his eyes and gives Red a growling, “You are aware I called you to Gotham because I am in need of your _aid_, Drake. I have no idea why any of this is an–an issue.”

And so, well, yes. Yes, it’d been a shock when the call had come to the Tower from Robin, a Robin he hadn’t seen since shit like _coming back to life_ had been _a thing_.

So when Dami called, he got his ass in the repurposed Batwing and flew to Gotham like the hounds of hell were on his heels, carefully _not_ thinking about how this is the first time he’d come back without world-ending catastrophes in the subject line.

Only for Damian to drop a proverbial ton of bricks right down on him.

Red’s whiteouts swing from the injured Robin over to the line of glass cases, narrows down on the empty glass case with the suit (_his_ suit) now hanging on the outside. Like he could just pick it up and put it on again.

(Like _that_ was ever going to happen.

Though, if Damian is to be believed, it just _might._)

“You said you needed my help,” he allows, still staring at his former uniform (and _God_, the _memories_ right there with green tights and a red breast, with the collar on the cape that saved his ass from a collapsed windpipe on _numerous_ occasions, the suit he wore for better or for worse, the one he made _his own_ once up a time), glad when the old tension, the old tightness is barely a _twinge_ anymore. “There was no mention of changing my _name_, or flying under _yours_.”

The youngest Robin suddenly looks tense, his hand pausing on Titus’ head mid-pat. “I did not mention it as you would not have come,” is a simple explanation, “I have been hunting these underground fighting rings for weeks, and the source will not meet with anyone other than Robin. Thus, I am in need of someone that can still go _out_ as Robin. Grayson is much too tall, and I cannot predict how Todd would even react, possibly by shooting everything in sight, which I do not need to deal with, and that, as you see, leaves you.” He waves a hand as if _voila_, everything explained.

Welp, not so much.

“Why not send Jon?” He almost, _almost_ throws up his goddamn hands because _really now_. “He’s your age, your height, _also a superhero_–”

“He would give himself away. Someone _human_ and experienced. It must be another Bat, Tim.”

And _that_? Dami calling him Tim?

“I hope you realize that isn’t even going to fit me anymore and neither are any of your suits,” he completely deadpans it, shaking his head a little because _how_, _how_ is this his life right now? Not only is he in the Batcave without the usual kind of probably cause, but he’s here because the Demon of all people called out.

He’s absolutely imagining Damian rolling his lips in an attempt not to _smile_, “it shall fit. That…is not your last Robin suit.”

Red goes still, completely _still_. His eyes go over to the suit again and even though the dom covers his eyebrows, the youngest Robin can still read the Batanese without fail.

“Father is aware I am asking this of you. He voluntarily made the suit for this occasion. It is, of course, yours to take should you chose.”

At some point, he’d started moving across the short distance from the Batcomputer where Dami was held up, tentatively reaching out for the gleaming R on the left shoulder, right above the heart.

(_Fuck what a metaphor_.)

And Dami being _easy_ about it, being _calm_ and matter-of-fact, just a little _reminder_ of the tentative acceptance that had been hard-earned and long-time coming, something that started after he was pretty much out of Gotham, something he’d kind of been working toward since that little trip to Darkseid.

And even if it was making his pulse pick-up, making nostalgia crawl up from deep in his belly, up his esophagus to lay on the back of his tongue, Red can’t find it in himself to refuse.

_Take a breath. Not a BFD, right? It’s just an old _name_._

“Okay,” he breathes out slowly, “okay.”

He taps the Red Robin symbol on his chest, deactivating the suit’s security. His back to the injured Robin, he pushes the cowl back from his face without looking away from the suit.

Holding it again, getting ready to wear the tunic, it’s just _this side_ of too much.

“Tell me everything,” his voice echoes, no matter how quiet it may be, not while he’s gripping the tunic in both hands, “and seriously, Demon, you _owe_ me.”

Dami simply gives Red’s back a fond smirk, “I had anticipated you would need something else since this request is…unexpected. I hope that may make up for the inconvenience,” and one hand comes up to gesture further back in the shadows.

Since the possibility of _what fucking else_ this odd, very Hitchcock-esqu scene conjure up (you know, certain items needing to be returned from Dami’s _Year of the Blood_ trip, to a damn box full of kittens that needed to _go to a ‘no-kill’ shelter, Drake, I will tolerate no less_). Needless to say he’s already on edge because of the too-accommodating “visit,” but when he cranes his neck to actually _look_and catches the shine half-hidden behind the big car on the raised daises, when he looks just _past_ that, when his chest stutters on the next _breath_, he can finally believe what his eyes are telling him.

On his way in, how could he have possibly _missed_ it.

Behind the Batmobile, parked and ready for him to climb in all over again, sitting clean and probably fully stocked, the glint _sharp_ in the dimness of the Cave.

_The Red Bird_.

He doesn’t swallow his tongue, but it’s a _close thing_.

“Is that _really_–?” And maybe his voice is a little _hoarse_, a little _cracked_, a little bit _broken_. Maybe his hands tighten in the Red Robin gloves because he knows the feel of the wheel under his knuckles, maybe his eyes get a little _hot_ when he can tell it’s been updated, re-designed because of shit like _growth spurts_ and such.

“Yes,” and Dami’s voice is absurdly soft, the sounds of Titus panting a little more white noise. “What is Robin without his wings, Tim?”

His heel is soundless when he does a slow, full-body turn, stares at Robin with bare face and something stupidly, goofily _fond_. The evidence falls into place in his brain while he watches the youngest vigilante try to remain calm and aloof when he’s fighting a _satisfied_expression that looks closer to murderously adorable than Red would have admitted to six months ago. It’s not lost on him how he’s been given this opportunity, this chance for the _one last time_ he never got, from _Dami_. It’s a hand extended with a tentative olive branch. (And isn’t _just like that little shit to be all about **redemption**? Fuck if Dick isn’t right and it’s goddamned endearing._) It’s a chance to move past their troubled history, a chance to start over.

So it’s a much-needed _moment_ when he looks back over the span of Cave, of familiar and new and _memories_ that were just such fucking _good times_. Standing here is more about possibilities, a light out of the proverbial _night_.

His eyes hit the Red Bird again, the warm anticipation finally taking _root_.

(And he knows his face is doing something like _maniacal, gleeful grinning_, because damn, even from here, she looks _good_.)

“I trust we are now _even_?” Baby Bat is hiding his smile behind folded hands, elbows on the computer’s deck, but those green eyes are twinkling at him, are lighter than Red can ever remember really seeing. It’s the first time he’s really seen the youngest Robin as a _kid_.

“Dami?” And if his eyes are softer than normal, full of something like _thank-you_, “this? _Totally_ makes us even.”

It’s really a crazy thing when Baby Bat laughs out loud, “maybe even a favor for next time I am in need of a detective?” The little shit gestures to the Red Bird, the Robin suit with an arched brow, “since Father and I put considerable effort to making this as authentic as possible.”

“All to go find your intel source,” but even he can hear the mirth in his tone.

“Absolutely,” is drawn out, “and–?”

“All right, all right, I will take the Red Bird and the suit in exchange for another bout of sleuthing. In between potential, world-ending disasters though, okay?”

“Excellent. I shall hold you to that, Tim.”

“I _mean_ it, Dami. You call, and I’ll come.”

And the grin doesn’t fall off his face even when he turns on his heel, ready to throw it the fuck _on_ and lace _up_. The car (_his_ car) and all the obvious care put in to make shit like giving him one last night as Robin strike him low in the abdomen while Dami turns back to the big computer, making Titus whine a little and flops down at the base of the chair.

And taking Red Robin off for the night in the _absurdly_ familiar changing booth, in peeking into his old locker just out of _curiosity_ to see it oddly…stocked, is still a rush in his veins starting to ramp up, to get ready for the night. But it’s putting Robin back on that sends electric up his spine when he sees himself, slides on gloves and gauntlets, trades black and red for _green_. When his fingers automatically move in old, _old_ muscle memory (of _course_ B knew, World’s Greatest Detective), checking the shuriken R, the catch on the utility belt, the secondary security, the wraps on his wrists and ankles.

Dami is hiding a grin under his hand, pretending to be engrossed in the statistics running on the screen in front of him.

“Don’t wait up,” is Red (_Robin’s_) reply, moving with the cape brushing his ankles, gleaming red, gold, and green.

“Ah, a moment. I expect you will need these.” Moving his foot carefully, Dami wiggles to the side in Father’s chair and pulls what he requires out of his pocket. He gives barely a flick of fingers in the toss before turning back to the screen, inordinately _pleased_ with himself.

(The outcome in his estimation could have gone several ways, most assuredly with Drake being prickly considering their previous feud had been…brutal. All of their past could have still been raw enough for more bad blood between them, could have backfired and resulted in Drake moving even further out of Gotham. Luckily, the desired effect, to give some long-awaited _closure_, is one that could one day be beneficial in bringing his predecessor closer to the city, and _thus_worth the risks. _Then_, perhaps Grayson would finally stop his _irritating_ and _excessive_ moping.)

The older vigilante turns, pauses with his arms crossed over his red chest. A _ching_ and he snatches the keys out of mid-air.

“Thanks, Baby Bat! I promise I’ll have her home by three,” is cheeky, right on the edge of laughter.

The mock scowl he gets over one shoulder in the light of the screen only makes him grin _wider_.

“Tt, do not simply _joyride_, Tim. I am in need of the next location for their fight.”

“No worries,” his tone drops slightly, not nearly as dark as _Red_, but something lighter with witty banter and youthful _anticipation_ for whatever he could possibly get into tonight, “it’s gonna be a good night all around, I can _feel _it.”

“_Tt_. As if I am not already _aware_ of your record as Robin. Honestly, as if I would have called you in had I not faith in your abilities.”

“Coming from you? That means a hell of a lot, Baby Bat,”

The words trail off behind him because he’s engrossed in running the pads of his fingers over the arch of Bird’s fender, going all the way _up_. The smile is still there on his face when he pops the door, automatically sweeps his cape to the side, and slides into a seat that is still crazily _here_ for him.

(Like it always had been…like he’d never really lost it after all and _fuck_ doesn’t that make the whiteouts fuzzy for just a stupid second.)

And just like he already knows, like he can _feel_ in the base of his spine, the engine turns over in a sensual _purr_, coming to life for him again, taking him out on one last _ride_.

It’s old instincts rising up, making him pat the dashboard before he shifts in reverse, and it’s an amazing thing when he laughs out loud when it’s him and the Bird breaking into the night.

**

Jumping into the unknown is just a little _business as usual_. It’s something ingrained, a practice woven into his _skin_. The rooftops are familiar enough still that he could pick out the subtle shifts and differences, can spot the new dealers and gang bangers without more than a glance, can see past the ordinary store fronts, can take note of the new kids running the streets at night.

He’s at _home_ watching, gathering intel, putting the pieces in place so the whole picture is all about being _in your face_.

But it’s a crazy thing how the left side of his chest feels heavier with the R gleaming gold instead of his symbol at the center with bandoliers and a _whole_ lot of different contingencies.

(_It’s red, gold, and green, the colors from the **best** years. How fucking fitting. He should be less of an ass to Dami because he’d obviously_ thought_ long and hard about this_.)

It’s _crazy_ how he feels lighter and heavier in the same _breath_, with the grapple line in a green gloved fist, with his elbows bare and short sleeves, how the tights aren’t as reinforced, how the body suit wraps around him like a fucking _glove_ (and he is and isn’t thinking about how this, _this_, makes his chest expand _out_ again, like letting out a breath he’d been holding in for _so fucking long_ because now, _now_, he gets the opportunity to fucking say _good-bye_ this damn time around–)

Landing it on the fire escape of the Tudor-style flower shop just a few blocks from the Wayne Tower, and he stands spine-straight, perfect balance in the knee-high boots, heavier in the heels than the ones in his Red Robin suit, just a little something _extra_ for those spinning back-kicks of Dick’s.

(And now he’s thinking of train hopping in the Haven, almost wiping out _epically_ before N snatched him out of the _oh shit_ zone at the last possible second, the times before their lives started spiralling out of control, so viciously _fast._)

It’s nothing to make the leap to the next roof and take the fuck _off_, to jump and dodge, to calculate the next step, the next roof, missing the trash piles and chimneys, stepping on the right spot to get the momentum he needs, keeping the grapple in hand for _just in case_, breathing in the dirty Gotham air while the muscles in his thighs start to _burn_ and he feels fucking _free_ again.

He runs like he’s thirteen and this is the rush of his _life_, he runs with a smart-ass grin, he runs like he can still make a difference.

He runs like he hasn’t run in _years_.

And _fuck_ does it feel _good_.

**

The fighting ring Dami had been tracking was really just a group of random ass hats. As the youngest Robin had predicted, the contact was the nervous sort with the location of the next three dog fights–

(And why, _why_, didn’t he predict this? He thought Dami meant like _guys fighting to the death_ kind of ring when it turns out to be illegal _dog_ fighting. _Sigh_.)

He doesn’t focus too much when the contact seems to be inching toward the mouth of the alley, but when it drops–

“_Robin_.”

He gets the warm churning in his chest, can grin white in the night.

“Thanks for the intel. I’ll make sure the others know your name. As long as you’re more on the _out_ than _in_, you’ll be good with us.”

“Yeah, yeah. Next one I hear, I’ll hit the short one up.”

“Good call. Stay out of trouble.”

Jumping around until he hit the Wallstone, can nudge himself under his old hideout, a place under the wings of the second gargoyle on the left, one with the chipped horn, not thinking about the way the stone collapses in around his shoulders, while he looks out over Gotham and devours a cereal bar. It’s strange to pick his computer out of his belt instead of it just being on his forearm, but he sends the deets to the Batcomputer and the Manor-bound Robin while he munches.

(And if he sees old ghosts, Steph in her first few months as Spoiler, Dick crouched beside him grinning around a mouthful of taco and talking about things like _school_ and _girls_ and _always be safe Timmy_; if he sees the boots from under the swoop of the gargoyle’s wing, B finally come to find him and take him home because _dammit_, tests at school tomorrow–

_Who would really believe it anyway?_)

Dami gives him an affirmative back, and then directions to Robin’s usual patrol route with a few interjections on the worst parts to keep in sight.

After a quick bite, he shoots the grapple and makes the next swing, takes on the route while the night softly fades with fog rolling in from Dixon Docks and the streets clear down to the last stragglers. The neon lights of all-night Hot Spots, five full swings and few muggers later and the bright Casinos are a whole new _element_. Bouncers toss out the drunks, some addicts get high in an alley, white collars walk briskly with a real kind of _purpose_.

And Robin, _Robin_, is the one that deals with it, that drops down out of the sky with a signature move, that banters with the bad guys, that gives an old smirk, one that works a whole different set of muscles in his face.

He fights fast and furious just like he does as Red, but to the trained eye (or the surveillance cameras O and Dami are monitoring) his kicks have an extra–

_Flare_

His punches are heavier, landing hard instead of fast and efficient. He pauses to talk up his game, grins while he’s knocking the _snot_ out of people.

Zip typing is done with a bounce on the balls of his feet, his jumps are _top notch_.

He’s (_Robin_) _lighter_.

Riding the adrenaline like he hasn’t in _years_, he stays out as long as he possibly can, keeps Dami updated on his next move, takes time to breathe it in all over again.

When dawn is ready to start breaking on the horizon, when he jumps in the Red Bird like he still _belongs_ behind the wheel, he finally high-tails it out of Gotham and through the familiar back roads and winding paths on the wave to the Cave’s main entrance.

He does and doesn’t expect Bruce to be there, is terribly _relieved_when the Cave is empty.

It gives him just a little more _time_, time to take off each piece fondly and put them on the mannequin in the glass case while a small grin stays in place. It gives him time to really open the locker and look at the shitty hair product and Pearl Jam stickers, the sharpie marks from Dick’s stupid comics, and a new pair of DCs where his always used to lay. A nerd shirt and jeans on the hooks inside so he could go civvie instead of Red if he wanted. A backpack is hanging up with the clothes, some suspicious-looking zip-lock containers at the bottom (_cookies, are those ALFRED COOKIES?_), a current issue of The Avengers is stuffed down with a file folder of notes in B’s neat block printing, a few things on the cases he has running back at the Tower.

He blinks at it all, stares it down after he pulls the domino off, and fucking _dammit_–

He’s smiling again.

The clothes are the right size, everything fitting over his lean frame like it was just here _waiting_. He takes the backpack and puts in his Red Robin gear along with the booty, thinks about reading the issue while the Batwing is on auto-pilot.

Even in the DCs, his footsteps are soft and light, the transition back to Red as the final vestiges of _Robin_, of everything he strove to _be_, settles back into his skin and muscle and down to the _bone_. It’s easier, lighter than it had been earlier in the night, some tight tension he’d carried on his fucking back for too many _years_ (like an automatic flinch even though you _know_ the blow is coming), all of it finally, _finally_ seems to ease.

(_This time, he got the chance to give it up on his own terms, his own **way**, got to have his last night, and for that? He’s probably not ever going to be able to repay Dami, but dammit if he isn’t going to at least **try**_.)

Dressed and ready to rock, he makes a few notes on the softly glowing computer, hands moving in a steady, familiar rhythm. He does a McAfee update for shits and giggles, stands up to stretch, and realizes he should get _ghost_ before B comes to consciousness around noon and comes down to make his usual notes.

And his eyes slide to the winding staircase, wondering if maybe, _maybe_…

_Not yet_.

_Soon though, maybe_.

Instead of traipsing tentatively up the winding staircase, to step foot in the Manor proper for the first time in _years_, to push the luck and seemingly hazy magic of tonight into the next level, Tim slides away from the big computer, makes his feet go the opposite direction, picks up the backpack and throws himself back on the Ducati he’d originally rode in on, helmets up over the soft, fond expression.

The glimmer off the glass cases is a little brighter in the rearview, the woods outside the Cave’s hidden entrance flowing gently in the breeze, and he’s lighter than he’s been in _years_.

He might drive a little fast and laugh a little louder, he might go back to the Tower with some _perspective_. He might keep the _Avengers_issue on his nightstand and read it a few too many times. He might look at that handwriting and the precise, condensed notes more than he really needs to. He might eat _the hell_ out of those cookies when it’s time for _real_ comfort food.

He might have a reason (_reasons_) to come back, and he might, just _might_, have a reason for the other foot to settle a little close to the city.

_You call, I’ll come_.

Yup, sounds about _right_.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I feel it is very cathartic to just think about Dami giving Tim one last ride in the tunic, one last night he didn't get after all that shit about losing Robin went down pre-52. I feel like Dami really is giving Tim this second chance, and things between them just start getting better from there on out, you know? Like, _this_ is how they get to be okay in the first few chapters of Fracture. This is why Tim has Dami's preferred coffee in his perch and Dami knows what cases he's working before any of the other Bats. Like, this as well as what will be the final Future!au will show how those first few chapters came about.


End file.
